A rush of cool air hit them as they rounded a corner, and she tugged the miners’ jacket tighter around her chin. Jack wanted to offer his condolences on her mother’s passing, but somehow the timing of it didn’t feel right. Hearing her intake of breath, he remained silent.
“I do not want you to think that I am brave, Jack. That I decided to come all this way on my own. I would never have gotten on that ship if given a choice. Yet over the past months, my reasons for continuing this journey have changed. It has somehow become my own journey now. That is influenced, I am sure, by the last request of my maman, as well as my desire to know the man who won, and somehow managed to keep, the heart of my maman” —her tone bordered on skepticism—“despite his broken promises to her. To us both.”
Jack trained his focus on the road, hearing her pain and not wanting to add to it. “My main fear, Véronique, is that you’ll get your hopes set on something and then get hurt in the process. There’s great potential for that to happen in this situation.”
“I understand what you are saying to me, and I appreciate the heart with which you say it. But you must know that I have not let my hopes run away with me like some winsome child. I know what ‘odds I am up against,’ as your people phrase it, and I will be fine.”
He wondered where on earth she’d picked up that phrase, and knew how much the advice he was about to give her also applied to himself. “Just remember that sometimes it’s the one thing we’ve never had, but have wanted for so long, that has the power to disappoint us the most.”
She sat quietly for a moment, as though letting that wash over her. “What kind of disappointment have you suffered that has taught you such discernment?” Admiration and curiosity threaded her soft question.
Jack knew that whatever he shared couldn’t be taken back. He trusted her with knowing about Mary and Aaron—it wasn’t that. But something told him that telling her about them at that moment wouldn’t help her find the answers she sought. “I guess it comes with age, and with having wrestled against my own desires from time to time. Having expectations can be a good thing, unless they take over. Then they can rob you of the happiness you might’ve had, had you been more content from the start.”
She didn’t answer immediately. “I am at peace with whatever my journey reveals.”
He detected tenuous confidence in her tone.
“I have never really known my father, and have only the vaguest of memories of him. So if I do not find him” —she shrugged—“I will have lost nothing, oui?”
But deep inside, Jack knew that wasn’t true. And from her guarded expression, he thought she knew it too.
Night had fallen by the time he pulled up in front of the hotel in Willow Springs. Véronique was asleep beside him, her head on his shoulder, her body tucked warm against his. With that combination, he’d been tempted to keep on driving into the night. His back and shoulder muscles ached from the miles of rutted roads, and from not having changed positions in the past hour. He hadn’t wanted to waken her.
The still of night settled around them like a cocoon. It wasn’t much past nine o’clock, but the town was unusually quiet. With the faint murmur of Fountain Creek hovering over the stillness, Jack remembered what Jonathan McCutchens had told him about this town last summer. He would never have come to this place without McCutchens’s recommendation. He owed that man a debt of gratitude, and he determined, at his first opportunity, to visit the banks of Fountain Creek and pay it.
Véronique sighed against him. Jack lightly brushed the top of her head, and then let his hand linger there. If anything had happened to this woman that day—any of the myriad of horrible things that had repeatedly come to mind as they’d traveled down the mountain—he wasn’t sure how he would’ve dealt with it.
She did not belong in mining camps. She attracted too much attention. She was naïve in ways that could easily get her—and him— into trouble. It wasn’t safe. It wasn’t wise. He shouldn’t allow her to accompany him again. But he knew he would.
Because if he didn’t let her go with him, she was just stubborn enough to find someone else to take her. And Jack was certain that the average male in this territory wouldn’t have her best interests in mind. Far from it.
Staring at her without fear of being caught, he found his focus drawn to her mouth. Even in sleep, her lips hinted at a smile. How could lips that looked so soft, so delicate, fire back with such deadly accuracy? That thought made him smile. He allowed himself to imagine what it might be like to kiss those lips, often, and what they might taste like. But doing so only encouraged desires he knew were best left unstirred, for both their sakes.
He gently nudged her awake.
She moved beside him. “Are we home, Jack?” She stretched and opened her eyes. They suddenly widened, and her expression went shy. While busying herself with smoothing the edges of the miners’ jacket, she demurely put distance between them on the seat.
Her reaction didn’t surprise him. “Yes, we’re home . . . Vernie.”
He grinned when she sat up a bit straighter. Her brows arched in question. He’d had plenty of time to relive the scene from the ramshackle hut that afternoon and recalled how the stranger had addressed her.
She cocked her head to one side as though to say she remembered the name’s origin. “I prefer my given name, monsieur.”
Jack’s smile deepened as he assisted her from the wagon. “I’ll try and remember that, ma’am.”
She shrugged out of the jacket and handed it to him. “Merci for the jaquette,” she whispered, covering a yawn with her hand.
He opened the front door to the hotel and waited to see her safely inside, then set her satchel by the front desk. He heard Mr. Baird’s voice coming from the back office.
Pausing at the staircase, Véronique glanced back, her hand poised on the rail. “Try hard to remember . . . Jack.” She said his name with emphasis. “For I have never been partial to nicknames.” Sleep enwrapped her voice, but her tone was all seriousness.
Jack gave her a mock salute. “Which, as you well know, makes me want to use it all the more . . . Vernie.” He closed the door before she could respond.
CHAPTER | TWENTY - THREE
I’M AFRAID THAT LAND isn’t for sale, Mr. Brennan. At least not through the normal course of land trade.” Mr. Clayton rose from his desk chair and walked to the large-paned window overlooking a busy thoroughfare of Willow Springs.
Seated on the opposite side of the desk, Jack eyed him, both disappointed and confused. He’d had such hopes for this working out. “What does that mean, sir? The land is either for sale or it isn’t. That shouldn’t be difficult to determine.”
Clayton turned, smiling. “I would completely agree with you, under normal circumstances.” He struck a match and held it to the pipe clenched between his teeth. He puffed in and out on the stem until a steady rise of smoke issued from the bowl. “The portion of acreage you’re inquiring about is part of a larger holding of property in that area.”
“And does this larger holding of property have an owner?”
“Indeed it does, sir.”
“And is this owner open to selling any of his land?” There was other property for sale in the area, but none that Jack desired as much as this piece. He’d already checked out everything available. Nothing matched the quality and location of his chosen plot. In his mind, he’d already started constructing the two-story cabin and knew exactly where he’d situate it.
“That’s where the difficulty comes in, Mr. Brennan. The current owner purchased the land from an auction in—”
“In Denver. Yes, sir, I realize that. Miss Duncan shared that with me the other day.” Jack didn’t want to give the mistaken impression that this was news to him.
“Very good.” The leather chair creaked as Clayton eased his weight into it. “As is customary in auctions, the highest bidder is awarded the prize. And this auction was no different. The only part of the proceedings that was out of the norm was the d
esire of the purchaser to remain anonymous on public record.”
Jack looked at him more closely. “I thought public record was just that—public.”
“Yes, as did I. And indeed, the name of the buyer is listed in the county records should anyone have cause to go looking. Or should I more aptly say, it’s buried there, in case anyone goes looking.”
“I don’t see what this has to do with me.”
Clayton nodded, indicating there was more forthcoming. “When the auctions for that period were listed in the local paper, that specific buyer’s name happened to be excluded from the accounts. Apparently no one noticed, or cared enough to follow up.”
Jack sifted through the details, wondering why Clayton was telling him all this, when he happened upon a nugget of possibility. He looked squarely across the desk at the land and title officer. “Are you intimating that sections of this land are still available for sale . . . but that I cannot know, and will not know, the seller?”
“That is precisely what I’m telling you, Mr. Brennan. At least in part. . . .” Clayton steepled his hands beneath his chin. “There is one more factor involved. The owner won’t sell to just anyone. We’ve had many offers on that property in the past couple of years. Could have sold it all five times over by now.”
“So money’s obviously not a factor for this person.”
Clayton remained silent, his expression unrevealing.
“So what’s the owner waiting for?”
“The better question is who. Who is the owner waiting for? And I wish I could tell you that with accuracy. Personally, I haven’t figured it out yet. All I know is that this person likes to interview the potential buyer before agreeing to a contract.”
Jack laughed softly. “Tell me where and when, and I’ll be there. If my offer is within an acceptable range of the asking price.”
“Oh, your offer is within acceptable limits. That’s not an issue. The question that remains, Mr. Brennan, is . . . will you be acceptable to the owner?”
————
Véronique seated herself at a vacant table in the dining room, away from the other hotel guests and near the front window, where she could watch the goings-on outside as the evening hour approached. Evenings in this territory were her favorite time of day. Especially with May’s hasty approach and the days growing warmer. The cool nights issued a standing invitation to come and take the air.
But she wished Christophe were there to stroll with her. Or perhaps Jack Brennan.
“Good evening, Mademoiselle Girard, would you like to try the special for the evening?”
Véronique smiled up at Lilly, recalling the conversation with Doc Hadley. “Oui, Mademoiselle Carlson. I have heard a rumeur that the fried chicken is especially délicieuse tonight.”
“Oui, mademoiselle.” Lilly dipped her head. “Très délicieuse.”
Watching Lilly walk away, noticing the exaggerated limp, Véronique hoped the chirurgien in Boston wouldn’t delay in responding to the town’s doctor.
A family’s laughter coming from a table in the corner drew her attention. A petite fille, no more than four or five years old, sat atop a block of painted wood situated on a chair between the two adults. The father reached over and tweaked the little girl on her nose. She cupped her hands over her face amidst a fountain of giggles, trying to hide as her father reached for it again.
Véronique looked on. What would it be like to be loved like that by one’s papa? To be shown such earnest, playful adoration? She wished she’d asked her maman more questions about him before her passing. They’d had numerous discussions about Véronique’s father when she was young, but as the years passed, and they accepted their lot, the conversations about ‘him’ became fewer and more distanced with time.
Véronique angled her chair so the family was no longer in her direct line of vision.
The past week had kept her busy accompanying Jack on three shorter supply runs, and all without any of the challenges of their journey to the Peerless. These mining towns—Beaver Run, Spitfire, and Bonanza—were smaller communities, closer to Willow Springs, and nearer the foothills, so even the heights hadn’t proven too hard for her.
But one thing had proven difficult—no one had heard of her papa. It was as though he had never existed, at least not in this area.
She thought of her mother’s bundle of letters buried deep in a trunk in her hotel room two stories above. At the bidding of her maman, she’d read them aloud, one by one, in the weeks preceding her mother’s death. She remembered her attempt late one night to make one of the letters briefer by skipping parts, as she was exhausted and wanting for bed. But apparently her maman knew the missives by heart. “You have left out a part, Véronique. Please read more carefully, ma chérie.”
Perhaps reading the missives again might offer insight Véronique had overlooked before, while also fulfilling another last request of her maman.
“Pardonnez-moi, mademoiselle. Might I join you for dinner?”
Véronique firmed her lips to quench the impulsive smile. “Though it saddens my heart to say it, monsieur, I must answer non. For I am waiting for a most important guest to join me. I must ask you to kindly dispose of yourself at another table, merci.”
Jack pulled the chair out beside hers and sat down, his large frame dwarfing the poor chair, and filling a portion of the emptiness she’d been feeling.
“I think I’ll just dispose of myself right here, seeing as you have room to spare, ma’am.” He gave an exaggerated sigh.
“How are you this evening, Jack? Did your supply run to Briar Rose go well?” She’d last seen him two days prior, before he left on the overnight trip.
“It did, thank you. A bit quieter than usual, but nice.”
She gave him a droll look, secretly wondering if he enjoyed the time without her. Or maybe, if he missed her company. She waited, knowing he would volunteer the information without her having to prompt him.
“I checked with the supply merchant, and I also stopped by the livery.” His expression sobered. He shook his head. “I’m sorry. No one had heard of him.”
The familiar news hit her strangely this evening, and Véronique had to look away. “Thank you, Jack . . . anyhow,” she whispered, using a new word she’d learned that week. One that wasn’t in her little book.
When Lilly brought her meal, she also brought one for Jack. And as the two of them ate, Véronique marveled at the ease with which they spoke and laughed together. It was as if she’d found another Christophe. Except that she’d never thought about Christophe Charvet the way she did about Jack Brennan.
She looked up and caught him staring.
He tucked his napkin beside his plate and stood. “Would you care to take the air with me tonight, Vernie?”
She cringed at the nickname, knowing that the more she opposed it the more he would insist on using it. The past week had proven that. “I would love to, monsieur. Merci.” He would forget in time. Or until she discovered something of equal irritation to use against him. She accepted the silent challenge with enthusiasm.
As they strolled the boardwalks, Véronique was surprised at how many people she recognized, and at how many greeted her by name.
“Want to check on the Percherons with me?”
She glanced up and saw the livery ahead in their path. “Oui, I would enjoy that. But does Monsieur Sampson not do this for you? You pay him to board the horses. I have seen commerce change hands between you, non?”
“Sure, he does it, but I like to do it too.” The front doors to the livery were closed, but Jack led her around to the back entrance. “Watch your step.” He briefly took hold of her hand, and let go too quickly. “Sampson might still be here, I’m not sure.”
But the place was empty, save for the animals.
She followed Jack to a stall near the back and immediately spotted his team. The Percherons stood taller than any of the other horses, and more stately. “You do realize that these horses issue from my beloved
home country.”
He nodded. “But I bought them anyway.”
She nudged him in the side, then paused at the look in his eyes. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Surprisingly, she didn’t find the silence awkward. Nor did he, by his contented expression. The sudden turn of her thoughts as she stared at him took her by surprise. Until she realized that, in truth, her thoughts had been approaching that gradual turn all evening.
She’d come to know this man, how he reacted when challenged, how he conducted himself under adverse conditions, how he accepted blame for something that was not his fault. And she also knew what it felt like for him to touch her—to touch her hand, help her from the wagon, put his arm around her as they navigated a crowd of miners—but what occupied her mind at the moment was something far more intimate, and that went beyond mere touching.
She blinked at the fullness of her imagination and knew she needed to veer her thoughts from their present course. Posthaste! “Are you aware that this breed originated near Normandy in the Le Perche region, not a great distance from Paris, and that they’re prized most highly in my country, serving as army mounts, among—” She drew a needed breath, watching as the contentedness on Jack’s face deepened. Which didn’t help the adjustment of her own thoughts. “Among other . . . highly important duties assigned to them.”
He stared, not answering for the longest time. “Is that so? I wasn’t aware of that, but it’s nice to know. Thank you.”
Feeling overly warm, she backed up a step. “It’s quite true. The lineage can be traced back to a single horse that was foaled at Le Pin in 1823.” She stroked the muzzle of one of the horses.
“You’re just a wealth of information tonight, aren’t you?”
From the gleam in his eyes, she got the impression he had read her previous vein of thought. Which made her grow even warmer. “What are their names?”
“Names?” He shrugged. “I’ve never been big on the name-calling thing.”
Remembered Page 22
